


I'm Too Proud For Love (But With Eyes Shut, It's You I'm Thinking Of)

by TemporalRanger (dorianpavus)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: deancasbigbang, Community: homebrewbingo, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Implied Underage, Incest, M/M, Self Harm, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:30:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorianpavus/pseuds/TemporalRanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning home for the summer after his first year at college, Dean finds things in Lawrence are worse than he expected; Mom and Dad's divorce seems a whole lot more real when it's not happening at the end of a phone line, Sam's retreating into books and telling tales, and Cas can't seem to get over the promise Dean broke when he left. Summer, Dean's pretty sure, is not supposed to be this hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Too Proud For Love (But With Eyes Shut, It's You I'm Thinking Of)

**Author's Note:**

> Extended warnings: INCEST (Cas is the middle Winchester brother), drug use and addiction, self harm, dub-con (one partner being high and the other being unaware), fighting!boys, implications of pre-fic consensual underage sex (all sex in fic is of age).
> 
> Written for the 2012 Dean/Cas Big Bang
> 
> Art by the amazing [~xlostloonax](http://xlostloonax.livejournal.com) can be found [here](http://xlostloonax.livejournal.com/11554.html). You should check it out; it's absolutely gorgeous.
> 
> Betaed by [~amorremanet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet) and [geckoholic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic). Many thanks to you both. <3

_When you said that you would stay well I believed it_  
 _Then I watched you float away just like a butterfly_  
 _So free and beautiful I wish I hadn't seen it_  
 _How can I pretend you're mine if I know otherwise_

_I lied to myself, feel sorry for myself_  
 _You carry me away, I don't know what to say_  
 _I don't, I don't_

_And now I'm just as through with you_  
 _As you are through with me_

\--Just As Through With You  
Nine Days

 

 

Coming home is worse than leaving.

Leaving, he'd thought, would be the hardest thing he ever had to do, packing his stuff into the back of the Impala, the keys still new in his hand from when Dad had pressed them into his palm, all smiles and _we're proud of you, Son_ , like Cas wasn't locked in their – _his_ – room upstairs, refusing to come out or say anything, like Dean wasn't breaking an oath and more by taking the scholarship.

Like the rest of his life on a plate was more worthwhile than the secrets hidden behind his and Cas' door.

Coming home is worse because he hopes.

Mom and Sam are there to greet him when Dean gets in, pulling the Impala into the driveway under the twisted tree he, Dad and Cas had built a treehouse in back in middle school, the NO BITCHES sign Dean had scribbled on an old plank as an excuse to keep Sam out when they got older and didn't want their tattle-tale little brother intruding still lashed onto the rail with fraying twine.

Sam attacks, pouncing on Dean in a whirl of thirteen-year old octopus limbs and stupid Bieber-hair, face buried in Dean's t-shirt. He keeps holding on as Dean laughs and ruffles his hair, half-carrying the kid up the path to the door.

Mom's greeting is more sedate; a fond, tiredly quiet smile as she pulls him down to kiss his cheek and hug him awkwardly around the obstacle of Sam.

There's no Cas waiting in the background, though, with a quiet, faint smile and shoulder squeeze that promises a proper greeting later, once they're away from prying eyes and judgements, when they can just be them and not worry about what might happen, how they might get pulled apart and separated, kicked out for something that's hurting no one.

After all, it's not like either of them can get pregnant with mutant inbred babies.

He doesn't know if he says something aloud or if Mom notices his gaze wandering into the hall, but her smile becomes a little more drawn, a little tighter; a pinch of something that might be worry pulling at her eyes.

"He's in his room, dear. Well. Your room, still, I suppose, though he hasn't called it that in a while... I did tell him to tidy it, though, so you _should_ be able to find your bed without wading through a pile of mess."

Dean blinks at her, and glances around again. Mom's old Camaro is parked in front of the Impala, but there's no sign of another car.

"Dad?"

It's... probably not the smartest question, with the divorce so fresh, but then, Dean's never been the sharpest crayon in the box. Sam's arms tighten, uncomfortably so, at the question and Dean absently pets the kid's back. Dammit. Obviously, there's going to be more in the way of talking about their _feelings_ this visit than Dean is comfortable with.

"He's coming for dinner." Mary's lips tighten a bit as she answers and Dean wants to beat his head against the doorframe for bringing it up; he knew how the divorce had gone, all bitterness and accusations and Dad drunk off his face with another kid in the next town over, but no; the first thing Dean fricking Winchester has to do upon returning home is upset everyone by bringing it up again.

Go him.

"It's... I could just go see him tomorrow, Mom, it's fine, you don't have to--"

Mary cuts him with a sigh, and a pat on the cheek that Dean's too old to lean into but does anyway.

"He's your father, Dean, I'm not going to stand in the way of him seeing you for the first time in nine months." She softens a bit, her thumb running gently across Dean's cheekbone. "I'll be fine, Honey, please don't worry."

Dean frowns at her, slightly over the top of Sam's head, a silent question, and gets a faint smile in return.

"I've got some pie in the kitchen... why don't you go see if you can pry Cas away from the computer while I dish up?"

Dean can't help a smile, gives Mary another hug before he reaches down to ruffle Sam's hair and start unwinding his arms, because Sam hugs like a retarded octopus and always has.

"Hey, Kid, why don't you go help Mom and we'll catch up over pie, huh? I'm not going anywhere for a while."

The room's unrecognisable when Dean gives up on getting an answer to his knock and just barges in on the grounds that no one had said he _couldn't_. It's now dominated by two huge computer screens angled towards Cas' bed –- Dean's bed, he notes, has been shoved unceremoniously over into the corner by the drafty window.

Dean had a quip prepared when he stepped in to the room; something light and amusing, something that would make Cas laugh, the little huff of near-silent amusement that accompanied his eyes crinkling, that would fix _everything_ (even though it probably wouldn't).

It's gone, though, wiped from his lips by the unconscious slide of his tongue, choked off in his throat by the way he swallows, convulsively.

Cas is sprawled on his bed; jeans discarded in a crumpled heap on the floor, shirt -- _Dean's_ shirt, he notices, the Starfleet command gold Captain's shirt that he wore to Comicon last year -- rucked up halfway up his torso, underwear a purple and magenta tangled twist around his ankles (Magneto, Dean thinks, because Mom buys their underwear in multipacks and hasn't quite twigged that maybe they're too old for superhero briefs now), hand flying over his dick and lip tucked between his teeth. Dean's vaguely aware that he's digging nails into his thigh, hard enough to feel through the denim covering, but it's not enough to drag his attention away.

Dean _knows_ this; the way Cas' head is tipped back, his neck a long pale stretch of exposed skin; the way his lashes rest against his cheek in a sooty half-circle, fluttering slightly and at odds with the faint crinkle in his forehead, the way his teeth dig into his lip to bite back noise, letting only the smallest whimpers escape; the way his knees fall apart so _easily_ to make room, the small, helpless jerk of his hips. The way the fingers of Cas' spare hand flexes --curls, then flattens, then curls again in the worn flannel of his Power Rangers bedspread that had never gotten around to being replaced.

There's porn on the screens, and tinny music that Dean can hear despite the pair of headphones engulfing half of Cas' head, but he can't register much more than that because Cas doesn't quite stifle the next moan, doesn't quite catch it and it's whiskey over sex and too deep for his brother's slender frame. It's all Dean can do to remember to fumble the door shut and flick the hook catch they'd bought at a hardware the first summer shut before he scrambles onto the bed, knees on either side of Cas' hips and weight braced on a hand by his head so he can see the way Cas' teeth dig a little harder into his lip, his brow furrows a little deeper and his lashes flutter for a moment as Dean brushes his fingers down the crease of Cas' thigh to bat his hand away and replace it with his own.

It doesn't take much; Dean's too familiar, knows too much for it to take long -- a particular _twist_ to his wrist; the scrape of a thumbnail under the head of Cas' dick, and Cas is arching under him, eyes flying open, blown wide until only the thinnest ring of blue remains around the pupil eclipse, and he comes over Dean's hand with a faint groan.

The way Cas falls back, a boneless mess of limbs, is familiar, too, the way his breathing slows from heavy gulps to a more normal rhythm, the way he looks sort of dazed for a moment as he blinks up at Dean are all known quantities. But the way his eyes get colder as his pupils shrink, the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands, instead of curling in Dean's hoodie to pull him down into the tangle, splay across the white and gold lettering on blue of Dean's UCLA hoodie to shove at him; these are new, new and horrible.

"Get off." It's harsher than Dean expects, Cas' voice still roughened with sex in a way that's doing nothing to help with the tightness of Dean's jeans, and it takes a moment, despite the coldness, the bitterness in the tone, for Dean to realise Cas means off _him_ , off the bed and not... like... _get off_.

Another shove at his chest makes Dean move -- stiffly and still reeling from the abrupt rejection, so much harder to pretend wasn't happening or find an excuse for than the months of passive-aggressive silence -- and perches awkwardly on the edge of the bed. It's not as far as Cas wants, he knows, can see the tenseness in Cas' jaw and the aggravated furrow to his brow, but it's as far as he's going for the moment because he's not leaving the room until his dick's gotten the message that, despite previous Pavlovian training, there's not going to be sex now he's finished jerking Cas off.

"That's my shirt." He says, after a moment, because that has to mean _something_ , right, that Cas is wearing Dean's clothes to masturbate, he's pretty sure that's not a normal thing. There's got to be some type of rule about it, about not wearing your brother's clothes while you get yourself off, right? So Cas wearing it _has_ to mean something, it just... it has to. His fingers hover for a moment, over the hem that's ridden up around Cas' navel, then moves to pluck futilely at the sleeve, just above the silver rank stripes.

Cas' gaze is coolly steady on his before it flicks down, regarding the Starfleet gold indifferently before he shrugs and looks away, turning his attention to the computer screens in a clear dismissal. Something cold seeps into Dean's gut, makes him lick his lip and tighten his hand around Cas' wrist, trying to find some hint of connection, some hint that there's _anything_ still there to find.

"You left." Cas' eyes flick back to Dean's, briefly, and the unease fades, a little, because that... that's normal and them, this weird staring thing, and Dean's having the unsettling feeling that whoever's in his brother's skin isn't the Cas he knows anymore. "Starfleet Order 104: Section B, Paragraph 1-A: _'In the absence of a starship's assigned captain, a flag officer has the authority to assume command of the starship should they deem it necessary.'_ You forfeited your command. I'm Captain now."

"Sirius dies." Dean announces as he wanders into the kitchen, causing Sam's head to shoot out of the battered copy of Order of the Phoenix he'd apparently appropriated off Cas' bookshelf, if the weirdly coloured stain from where they'd spent an afternoon unsuccessfully trying their hand at potion making is anything to go by. He thinks the look Sam is giving him in response is _supposed_ to be the patented Sam Winchester bitch face that he sometimes lets Cas borrow, but it's coming off more like the puppy that just got kicked and put out in the rain at the same damn time and doesn't know why.

"Jeez, I'm just kidding, okay? Seriously, stop with the sad eyes, kiddo."

Dean's kinda helpless to that look. He has a feeling he's going to be getting a lot of it once Sam gets to the end, and makes a mental note to hide the damn thing at his earliest opportunity.

The bitchface he gets for ruffling Sam's hair is so much easier to deal with.

Mary sighs and glances up from where she's dolloping large spoonfuls of cream onto plates containing generous helpings of pie.

"Dean, honey, stop tormenting your brother... speaking of, where's my second son?"

Dean's kinda really frikkin' glad Mom's back is turned so there's no way she can see the way Dean fumbles a little as he slides into a seat, momentarily distracted by a sudden, high-def replay of recent events flaring against the back of his eyelids.

"Uh." Dean recovers, smoothly. "On the computer. No go on getting him to disengage, sorry."

Mary sighs, squeezing his shoulder a little as she places an (extra large, he notices gleefully) piece of apple pie in front of him.

"Don't take it personally, dear. It takes a Klingon battle fleet to drag that boy out of that room these days. God knows what he's doing up there."

"Drugs." Sam pipes up, nose still buried in Hogwarts.

"Your brother is not doing drugs." Mary puts Sam's plate down with a little more force than entirely necessary, but Dean's sorta distracted and still gaping at her a little.

"Mom, are you a geek?"

Mom raises an eyebrow, a faint smile on her face as her hand slides through his hair, ruffling affectionately.

"Who do you think got your father into Star Trek in the first place, dear?"

"Yes, he is." Sam's getting that mulishly stubborn set to his features that means there's a bitch-fest in the offing, bull-headedly refusing to drop the subject. "He gets them from Crowley and he-"

"Sam. _What did I say about telling stories._ " 

Dean decides against looking up from his pie; catching Mom's eye when she's using that tone is the first step down the road to civilian casualties. The resentful silence emanating from Sam's chair paints a pretty clear picture of the bitch-face currently scrunching up his forehead anyway.

At least the kid's grown enough damn sense not to push his luck by muttering "but he is." until Mom's on the other side of the kitchen putting the pie away.

John smells like whiskey and cigarettes.

It stinks, too, enough that Dean can smell it when he opens the door, that he wrinkles his nose during the hug he gets pulled into and tries not to breathe as he hugs back, as Dad pulls away and slaps him on the shoulder.

He seems tired, in the same way Mom does -- the same tightness to his mouth and eyes, the way he looks older, the way the grey in his hair is more apparent and his clothes hang a little too loosely on him.

He grips Dean's shoulder tightly as he passes, and his smile seems brittle as he asks about College and soccer, and if Dean's finally gone and gotten himself a girlfriend yet, and whether he's keeping up with the work on the Impala or not.

Mary frowns when they come in to the kitchen, lips thinning as she glances up from the lasagna she's serving up.

"John." She acknowledges him coldly.

Dinner, Dean thinks, is going to be awkward.

Dinner is not awkward.

It's a clusterfuck.

Mom and Dad spend most of it being very pointedly and coolly polite to each other, snipping and sniping at sore spots. Cas spends most of it staring at the table silently, though he surfaces from time to time to pepper in a dryly sarcastic comment. They're bitterer, sharper than Dean remembers, though. Sam. Well. Sam _tries_ , at first, to keep up a normal chatter with true Winchester pig-headed stubbornness, but after both Mom and Dad snap at him for a particularly inventive story about rescuing an escaped marmoset at the zoo, he settles into alternately glowering at his water glass, Mom and Dad.

Which mostly means that Dean gets stuck in the middle, fielding questions about UCLA and his exams and what his teammates are like, is Coach Hendricksen as much of a hard-ass as rumoured, when the Hell's he going to get around to finding himself a girlfriend, they're starting to wonder about him.

Which'd be fine and peachy and all, if Dean wasn't kinda distracted trying to get _some_ kind of smile or acknowledgement or just _any fucking sign_ out of Cas. Cas is across from him, at least, which means that Dean looking in his direction most of the time isn't really an issue, but it doesn't really help a whole lot when Cas is so determinedly avoiding his gaze -- eyes fixed on the table almost constantly and the few times Cas does glance in his direction (mostly when Cas is making some sardonic comment about Dean's answer), his gaze ends up fixed on a point above Dean's head or the wall behind him. Dean's pretty certain the corner of Cas' mouth curls up slightly when Dean fends off the girlfriend question, but it's not like he's prone to extravagant facial gestures, so it's pretty hard to be sure. Certainly, he pulls his foot away when Dean cautiously nudges at Cas' ankle with his toes.

Mostly, dinner is an awkward fuck-fest of Mom and Dad being pissed at each other, Sam seething and glowering at them, Cas being resentful and Dean feeling like he's balanced precariously on the edge of some Road Runner-esque gaping chasm. Except the ground is crumbling and he's also being forced to take a pop quiz.

It's not really the homecoming he'd had in mind.

At least the lasagne is good.

Cas bails half-way through dessert, suddenly shoving his chair back without a word, jaw tight and back a straight line of tension, halfway through John answering one of Dean's questions about what he's been up to. 

He's managed to stalk out the door in the time Dean's still blinking at his now-empty chair, and Dean opening his mouth to say something is cut off by Mary's tired sigh as she goes to stand up.

Dean glances down at the half piece of pie left on his plate, then echoes the sigh as he puts his fork down and stands up, waving Mom back down with a muttered "I'll get him."

It takes a little before Dean manages to track Cas down. He's not up in their room, though the computer's still on, still playing porn to the empty room until Dean shuts it off. He's not hiding the bathroom, in the hammock strung up in the backyard, or in the study in the gap between his bookshelf and the wall, his little not-quite-hiding spot that kept him out of casual line of sight.

The treehouse should probably have been higher on Dean's list of places, he supposes, when he hauls himself up the ladder to find himself face-to-sole with Cas' Converses, because Cas has always liked it, being up high and tucked into a small space all at once, not having to bother dealing with people, because Cas is pretty fond of that.

They haven't used it much the last few years, though, because it's kinda cramped now they're not kid-sized anymore. Besides, it had gotten to be a pain replacing the beanbags every year, because they _never_ remembered to take them in once Fall hit and after the first few rainstorms they were so much mulch and mould, and making a den in the basement had proved so much less hassle.

Dean grunts a bit as he hauls himself up into the treehouse, and follows it up with a sigh when Cas immediately hauls his legs back, pulling them up until he can wrap his arms around them and rest his chin on top.

It's Dean who breaks the silence in the end though, because his ass is starting to go numb and Cas still isn't giving any indication that he's going to do anything more than sit there until the Apocalypse comes down around their ears.

"So that was kinda shit, huh?"

Cas _laughs_ , after a moment, and it's wrong and broken and hollow and sounds like it fucking _hurts_ coming out.

Dean hates it.

"That? Dean, that was their _good_ behaviour. _That_ was the nicest Mom and Dad have acted to each other since Adam showed up on the doorstep. _That_ was fucking Armistice." Cas laughs again. "You'll see soon enough."

Dean sighs a bit, closing his eyes and letting his head thump back against the wall.

"Unless you're intending to go running back to the West Coast as soon as you think you can get away with it, of course... they _might_ be able to keep up the facade for a week or two."

Dean opens his eyes, blinking at Cas for a moment.

"Dude, what the Hell crawled up your ass? I was at fucking _College_. Like. I know. I _left_ and all, but. Seriously. I went to College, I didn't skip town to avoid taking you to Prom or shit."

Cas snorts.

"Nothing 'crawled up my ass', Dean." Dean can see enough to see the movement as Cas lifts his hands to airquote like the last few years have just passed him by. "You weren't here. And you should have been. You were _supposed_ to be. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? I work my ass off to skip a year; you sit around on your ass for a year while I finish school."

"Yeah, but... Jesus, Cas. We've _been over this_. It's not like I _planned_ on getting offered a scholarship or anything, y'know? And it's not like they just let you say 'oh, yeah, thanks and all, but any chance it can wait a year?' or anything. Besides, that whole... same school thing probably wasn't going to work anyway, because it's not like my grades would have been good enough for us to go the same school, and like hell was I gonna let you settle for some... average ass college. And it's not like you couldn't get into UCLA with your hands tied behind your back, but... just. I'm sorry I broke it and all, but... taking the scholarship seemed pretty much like the best option. For us, y'know? It's not like I _liked_ you being halfway across the country, or like I knew things were gonna go to Hell in a hand-basket this year."

Cas sighs, heavily, and his leg bangs into Dean's as he starts crawling over to the ladder, stopping to stare at Dean for a moment, only the top half of his face visible above the floor.

"You weren't here, Dean. Stop acting like you know anything."

Dean's sweating by the time he gets back from his run, the grey material of his old, worn "Trekkies do it in the Final Frontier" t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back as he makes his way up the stairs. Cas is lying on his bed again, of course, because these days it doesn't seem like he does a hell of a lot besides playing on his computer, but there's no porn this time, just _Doctor Who_. Which makes Dean want to flop down next to Cas, nudge him over to make room Dean doesn't intend to use anyway, because they've been in each other's personal bubbles for so long Dean's not actually sure they haven't just fused.

He doesn't, though, because Cas doesn't look up, doesn't give any indication that Dean exists, so Dean just crosses to his drawers to change, acutely aware of the lack of eyes on him as he shucks off his t-shirt and UCLA Bruins track-pants.

It's dark out the window by the time Dean excuses himself from the impromptu high school reunion that's forming up in Anna's living room and yells up the stairs that if Cas wants a ride home, his ride was about to leave.

There's still no answer after a long moment, and Dean briefly considers just leaving, turning around and heading home and letting Cas find his own damn way back. Almost does, is on the verge of it, has already turned and picked his way through the crowd, halfway to the door before he stops, sighs and starts picking his way back to the stairs. Drags a hand through his hair as he heads up the stairs, still wondering why he doesn't just turn around and leave his brother to fend for himself when Dean apparently doesn't rate even the offhand courtesy of a response anymore.

Gabriel's room is easy enough to identify; the Casa Erotica 4 poster on the door a clear indication. Dean might hate the guy for being an all-round general douchebag on a permanent sugar high, but sometimes he does have to admit he likes the asshole's style. He knocks, more of a formality than anything since he pushes the door open as soon as his hand's free and sticks his head into a room that... kinda looks like an STD waiting to happen, between the Playboy pin ups and the red satin sheets and the dim lighting provided by the pair of green lightsabers crossed over the bed. And it's not that Dean actually has a _problem_ with porn; it's just that this looks like it could be used at the set for _Star Whores LXIX: Attack of the Bones_.

Once Dean's eyes have adjusted to the dim light, he picks out Crowley, almost a shadow in his usual black, leaning up against the headboard, Gabriel sprawled across the sheets with his head in Crowley's lap. Cas is across the room, in a satin covered bean bag that he seems to be losing a fight with, if the flailing sprawl of limbs is any indication, doubly weird given Cas' general habit of sitting as still as a statue.

"I'm heading off... Cas, you want a ride?" Dean frowns over at Cas, but when the only indication that Cas has heard is more wiggling in the beanbag he sighs, an aggravated exhalation of air, and stalks into the room.

He manages to make it over to Cas without touching anything, and shoves a hand down in his general direction. "C'mon." There's still no reaction from the bean bag, so Dean tries wiggling his fingers in an attempt to communicate that Cas should, y'know, _let Dean help him up now, kthnx_. "Cas, seriously, that thing's probably gonna give you VD."

Gabriel flips him off. Cas just laughs, a happy, loud noise at odds with his usual near-silent huff of amusement, and Dean frowns, hand still extended to help Cas up, until he catches a glimpse of Cas' eyes.

"Jesus." He tightens his grip on Cas' jaw, tilting his head back so Dean can get a better look at what he'd almost missed in the creepy lightsaber mood-lighting, the way Cas' eyes are so fricking huge, the blue almost eclipsed until only an unnaturally thin band remains. "Are you _high?!_ Motherfucking _what_ , Cas."

The laughter and the way Cas is trying to rub his face against Dean's hand like a cat are not going a long way to convincing Dean he's got the wrong end of the stick.

"Oh, Re- _lax_ Dean, honestly." Crowley's smug, overly-British drawl, is about the last thing Dean wants to hear when his brother looks like a freaking _lemur_ , just _licked his hand_ , and still hasn't actually managed to _say_ anything yet. "It's just a bit of Ecstasy, nothing to get your knickers in a twist over."

Dean glowers at him for a moment, seriously considering decking the asshole, and how are illegal drugs _not_ something to get worried about, seriously, people _die_ from Ecstasy, but Cas seems to feel like now would be a good time to hug Dean's knees and rub his cheek against his thigh and... right, yeah, getting Cas _out of here_ is probably gonna be better than punching Crowley's teeth in, however satisfying the latter might be.

"C'mon" He says, again, reaching down to unwrap Cas' arms and haul him upright, sighing when Cas stumbles, giggles and grabs onto his shoulders. "We're going."

Crowley coughs, discreetly, from the bed, and just raises an eyebrow when Dean glares at him. "I'm not running a charity here. We had a deal, and unfortunately I can't let you leave until he pays up... bad for business if word gets around, see."

"Bite me, Crowley."

"Only if you paid me, Dean."

Dean grits his teeth, and tries to ignore the way Cas is brushing his hands over his chest.

"Jesus, could you not be a douche for ten minutes? How the _fuck_ do I get him down?"

"You are very physically appealing." Cas says, suddenly, helpfully illustrating one of the many myriad ways his being high could end disastrously for them both, and running his fingers over Dean's face with little regard for minor inconveniences like potentially blinding Dean or getting them both tossed in jail for incest.

Fucking peachy.

"Yeah, that's nice, Cas, but let's go back to playing the quiet game, huh? And seriously, Asshat, how do I get him down?"

"And why on earth would I tell you that, Dean? You just stiffed me, you're hardly my favourite person right now. Or ever, really. But the question is really why _would_ I help you, Dean?"

"Uh... Because if you don't I'll tell the cops you're dealing, genius?" 

"Yes, I'm shaking... except for where you don't have any evidence. Which means it's my word against yours, they'll question me, try to get me to talk, maybe attempt to intimidate... and then dear old Dad will show up, and the charges will be dropped on insufficient evidence, and it's all a rather unpleasant waste of time. But still not something that's going to convince me to help you."

"God, do you like... get off on being a dick?"

Cas, apparently, takes that as an invitation to run his fingers over Dean's lips, skirting over them and nudging inside, before Dean jerks backwards, blinking down at the way Cas is frowning at him, head tilted.

"No? That is unusual... generally you are very mouthy."

Okay, Jesus, they have got to get out of here, or Cas is going to out them to everyone. Dean's just gonna have to figure out bringing him down on his own. 

He still flips Crowley off on the way out of the room, though. It's a point of principle.

Cas' fingers catch at Dean's jacket, stop him from straightening up when he's done coaxing Cas under the covers, takes the opportunity to brush his fingers through Cas' hair and curl them in the soft strands under the guise of comfort. Dean blinks, frowning down at the hand clutching the lapel of his jacket, and licks his lip, suddenly dry.

"Cas?" He says, tentatively, wavering with one knee on the mattress and the other foot on the floor.

Cas doesn't say anything for a moment, too busy curling onto his side, still without letting go, and when he does eventually say something it's quiet and rough throated, half a whisper, because after two hours driving around with Cas' hands being incredibly distracting, he's finally coming down.

"I... would be amenable if you were to remain..."

Dean sighs, has to close his eyes for a moment and pinch the bridge of his nose because after nine months, and all of the hands on him, it's really _fricking_ hard not to just climb in and take him up on whatever he's offering. Instead, he brushes a few strands of hair back off Cas' forehead before he pulls his hand back.

"I'm just gonna get you some more milk and bread, okay? That's supposed to help..." Dean sighs, drags a hand back through his own hair. "I'll -- just, I'll be back in a moment, and I'll just be down the stairs. You're gonna be okay for a few minutes, right?"

Cas' snort, that manages to audibly imply the eye roll that accompanies it, is reassuring despite the irritation conveyed.

"I'm intoxicated, Dean, I have not regressed to infancy -- you are acting like maternal poultry again."

"The phrase is 'mother henning', Freak. And last I checked I wasn't covered in feathers or a girl, so."

Sam pokes his head out of his room as Dean goes past, all bleary eyes and sleep mussed hair.

"Everything okay?"

Dean sighs, reaching over to mess Sam's hair up further, and smirking a little at the bitchface he gets in return. "Yeah, Sammy, it's fine; Cas isn't feeling great, but it's nothing to worry about. Go back to bed."

Sam doesn't, of course, instead trailing after Dean in his too-small Aquaman pyjama bottoms and the over-sized Stanford t-shirt Dean had sent him for his birthday.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing that he won't sleep off, he just-- overindulged a bit. No big." It's a bit awkward, he knows, but it's gotta be better than stressing Sam out as well -- or having him go running off to Mom the second she gets back from the hospital. "I'm just getting him something to eat and drink, and then we're going to sleep, and he should be fine in the morning."

Sam drops into one of the kitchen chairs as Dean rummages in the fridge, slumping forward with his chin in his hands and looking half asleep.

"He was hanging out with Gabriel and Crowley, right?"

Dean startles a bit, clutching the milk carton tighter and blinking at Sam, hesitating for a moment before he measures a spoonful of strawberry Nesquick into the glass.

"Yeah... you want some of this?" Dean gestures vaguely in Sam's direction with the milk, then frowns a bit and casually adds "And how'd you know, anyway? 'Bout Doucheriel and Assly?"

Dean's half expecting some Bitch Face of Forehead Wrinkling Judgement about how Sam's _fourteen_ , Dean, he's too grown up now for flavoured milk... but instead Sam just makes a tired sound and nods.

"Chocolate. And it's not like it's rocket science or a state secret or anything, Dean. Cas has been hanging out with them since Dad left." Sam shrugs a little and stifles a yawn.

Dean frowns down at the glass of milk in front of him as he dumps a spoonful of chocolate in it and starts stirring, pushing aside the unease Sam's words bring up, the knot that starts to form in his stomach, the echo from his first day back of Sam claiming that Cas was on drugs... because Cas is just experimenting, just being curious; Crowley obviously tricked him into it, because that was what pretentious douchebags _did_ , right, it wasn't like Cas had a problem or anything. Cas wasn't the type.

The milk's in the microwave and Dean's watching the bright numbers on the L.E.D. tick down the seconds before he remembers that he should probably stop standing here like an idiot and _say_ something.

"Er. Yeah, I guess it's not. Sorry Sammy, guess I'm just... kinda tired." Dean manages to shake himself back into motion, getting out a plate and pulling out a few slices from the fresher, unopened loaf of bread. The websites he'd pulled up on his phone hadn't said anything about bread helping, but Dean figured if it helped soak up alcohol, maybe it'd help with Ecstasy too-- and if it didn't well, it also wasn't going to hurt Cas any to get something solid in him.

The microwave beeps, and Dean spends a moment skimming the skin off the top of the milk before he places the chocolate in front of Sam. Sam glances up, smiling sleepily up at Dean, and murmurs a thanks, leaning in to the contact when Dean squeezes his shoulder.

Cas doesn't seem to have moved much since Dean left, still curled loosely on his side, watching the opposite wall under half closed eyes, though he sits up a bit when Dean sits on the bed, nudging Cas over with his hip to make room.

"C'mon, Pretty Boy, you need to be more vertical or you're gonna end up with food in your lungs."

Dean waits until Cas is sitting up to hand over the food (ignoring the way Cas mutters "Maternal poultry" under his breath as he does so) and sighs, tipping his head back against the wall and enjoying the weight of Cas against his side; the way he leans and the way his hair smells when Cas rests his head onto Dean's shoulder with a faint groan and Dean gets a noseful of it, the same old way he goes almost boneless when Dean sighs and tentatively starts carding his fingers through the dark strands.

It's nice, familiar, as long as Dean doesn't spend too long thinking about the circumstances, if he just focuses on the warmth and the papaya smell of Cas' shampoo.

If he doesn't think about the fact that, in the morning, he's probably going back to being _persona non grata_.

Dean sighs again, softly, wrinkling his nose a bit when the exhalation causes the strands to tickle his nose, wraps an arm around Cas' back, tucking him closer and playing with the hem of his _If the TARDIS is rockin', don't come a knockin'_ t-shirt.

"Hey, Cas?"

And he knows --he _knows_ that he shouldn't do this, that he should leave his questions until tomorrow, until Cas' brain is back to normal and he can make a decision with all of his senses, but he's also pretty sure that will just result in the same sarcasm and brush offs that he's had since he got home and that single line on the wikipedia article is mocking him: _"ability to discuss normally anxiety-provoking topics with marked ease."_

"Dean?" Cas' chin digs into his shoulder when his brother turns his head, peering at him and God his eyes are huge right now.

Jesus, Dean kinda wishes he could take some E right now too, make this a little less awkward, make him stop feeling like his guts are strangling each other and like scum, cause maybe he's not taking advantage of Cas in any physical way, but he sure as hell isn't doing the right thing here.

"It's just-- I just wanted to know why you've been acting like an assbutt since I got back? I know I was a douche, and I broke the promise and all, but-- it's not like I don't deserve some of this, but-- it's not like I didn't have reasons?"

Cas blinks at Dean for a few moments, then sighs, an edge of irritation to the sound, and Dean wonders if maybe wikipedia was wrong, or maybe that effect is just wearing off faster than the dilated pupils and tactility.

"I don't know. Dean. Emotions are hardly my forte, and in case you failed to notice? A lot of them imploded around here while you were gone." Cas huffs for a moment, then rubs his cheek against Dean's shoulder, cat-like.

The difference between what Cas is saying and the affection in the gesture makes Dean frown and blink at him, staring back at Cas as his brother watches him, and that, that's so them that it makes Dean ache, because as much as he wants to enjoy the eye contact, let it descend into eye fucking, he can't let himself forget that this moment, right now, is ultimately hollow.

There's a rather grim air over the booth, one especially at odds with the purported purpose of this outing -- namely, burgers and ice cream on Mom's dime. 'Course that strategy probably would have been more effective a few years ago, when they were too young to realise that they were being hustled out of the house so Mom and Dad could sign the divorce papers without having to play nice.

Dean sighs, drags his gaze back from staring aimlessly out the window (not like the scenery's much of anything, just the car park and the Good Will across the street). Cas echoes it tiredly as he picks at the bowl of chips without looking up, and Dean's lips twitch a little because that, that's almost like the old days, back before everything got twisted around and screwed in the ass.

Sam, next to Dean and across from Cas, sits with his arms crossed, bitch-facing down at the chocolate milkshake. Which hasn't really done anything to deserve this treatment -- the day Ellen serves a shake that isn't perfect is the day the apocalypse happens, and even then it'll probably only be because some zombie is trying to eat her brain --but Sam seems to view it as some sort of blood money, if the way he keeps stabbing at it is any indication.

"You guys think... I don't know, maybe we should do something for Mom?"

Cas startles a little, like he'd forgotten he wasn't alone, and his foot knocks into Dean's under the table as their gazes meet for a moment --but then they're gone again, blue eyes dropping back to the scuffed surface of the table as his foot jerks away suddenly. 

"What, like... making dinner or getting her flowers or something? 'Snot a bad idea, squirt." Dean takes the opportunity to muss up Sam's hair, snickering a little at the bitchface he earns.

Cas snorts a little as he pokes at the chip bowl, and it's probably not the time to be noticing -- again -- how elegant and gorgeous his hands are, but it's not like Dean can exactly _help_ it.

"I'm sure a halfway competently cooked meal will make her forget the fact that the man she intended to spend her life with had a secret family a couple of towns over. If only we'd thought of it sooner."

The silence that falls over the table this time is harsher, more jagged and edged then the semi-camaraderie from before. 

They're still sitting in silence when Ellen comes over to clear their plates; Cas has gone back to staring at the tabletop, Sam's pouting up at the menu and Dean's trying to figure out why the _Hell_ Sam and Cas can't be in the same room without arguing and what he's supposed to say to smooth the edges off _this_ time.

Ellen rescues him from that, at least, teasing Sam and asking how he's going. Sam tells her about some date he's apparently got with Lilith Fremont, which is the first Dean's heard about the head cheerleader even knowing Sam existed, but there you go. Cas' disbelieving snorts suggests he hasn't heard anything about it either, and given that he has some sort of twisted-ass friendship with Bela Talbot, he probably _would_ have heard.

Cas waits until Ellen's walked off to get their ice cream, at least, before he actually says anything.

"How long, exactly, do you intend to continue concocting falsehoods, Sam? Whatever impression you may be under, we're not idiots -- your fallacies are rather more apparent than you realise."

Sam's bitchface is _epic_. 

"I'm not lying, _Dick_. Just because _you_ can't get a date doesn't mean _I_ can't, okay, so shut up about what you don't know. She was at the mall, and I went up--"

Cas cuts him off with another snort.

"Of course you're not, Bitch. Because you haven't spent the last two years _not_ telling Jessica that you like her. Oh. And for the record, she doesn't believe that we hunted werewolves last Summer either."

Sam's bitchface somehow ratchets up a few notches, accompanied by a kick at Cas' shins.

Which, of course, results in Cas retaliating.

Dean's really starting to think he should have just stayed at College.

"Hey, you've got the Winchesters'. Dean speaking."

Crap, maybe he's not supposed to say that now... Mom's not around though, and even if she's gone back to Campbell, Dean, Cas and Sam haven't so _technically_ the house is still like... 3/4 Winchesters. Whatever. Not a huge deal, he's just gonna have to watch it when Mom is around, because he's kinda partial to living.

"Dean? Hi, it's Bela."

Dean briefly considers just hanging up, or possibly using the phone to beat his head in. Cas' taste in friends kinda sucks.

"Bela." He eventually says, grudgingly, because Bela is a bitch and also probably hates him. "Cas isn't here. Try his cell."

"Charming as ever, Dean. But not the actual reason I was calling... you _do_ know where your brother is, don't you?"

"He's _out_. Like I said, call his cell."

It smarts, not knowing that. Dean's never found himself shoved to the outside of Cas' life before, has always been right in the centre of it, wouldn't have needed to be asked where Cas was because Cas had _always_ been with Dean, grafted to his side like a shadow.

"Yes, well, I could, but that's not really what I'm asking here, Dean. Drum up a few brain cells to rub together, please."

"Fuck you." Dean says, half-heartedly, because it's not like Bela's exactly wrong and the only reason Dean _ever_ got into a decent College in the first place was soccer.

"Thanks anyway Dean, but I make a point of not having sex with people who sleep with their brothers."

Dean chokes, heart racing too loud, too fast in his chest, can feel it pounding in his ears, a sick, spinning sensation as his stomach drops and heaves because oh God, Bela _knows_ , and and.... _fuck_. He splutters a bit, eventually manages to force out a vaguely coherent sounding "What?"

"Oh, re _lax_ , Dean. If I haven't told anyone yet, I'm hardly going to start now. I still think you're scum for leaving, but --much as I'm loath to admit it – and I am – he's much less troubling and troubled when you're around to call on."

"Uh -- thanks? I think." Dean blinks a bit at the opposite wall, and gives up on verticality, flopping onto his back, feet up on the opposite arm of the couch. "But... what's up? Because that was kinda dangerously close to sounding like a compliment."

"Don't let it go to your head. Keep in mind, the alternative here is that he makes himself a regular guest at Balthazar's drug-addled _festivities_."

Dean's still blinking, still can't quite take in what she's saying, too torn between terror and sickening dread and a sort of creeping numbness, because maybe he and Cas weren't hurting anyone, weren't doing anything that was wrong, or evil, but God -- God, if they got caught -- if Mom found out, or the cops or-- 

God, Dean would be lucky to stay out of jail, let alone ever see Cas again. He probably wouldn't even be able to see Sam, Mom'd probably disown him, Jesus, Sammy'd probably think he was some... sicko or something. Like Dean got off on Cas being his brother or something, like it wasn't just _Cas_ , like it wouldn't always be _just Cas_ , regardless of anything, like if there wasn't some way that Dean _could_ have avoided sleeping with his brother he would have, like it wasn't _always_ going to be this way, him and Cas.

"Dean? You still alive there?"

"Huh? Yeah. Yeah, I'm still here. Uh. What did you want?"

Bela _sighs_ , and Dean gets the feeling he missed something, there, but it's not a realisation that more than briefly impinges on his worried nausea.

"I was just letting you know that Cas is going to Balthazar's party tonight, in case you wanted to step up and do something. I'll let you get back to... whatever emotional crisis I'd say you were having if we didn't both know you have the emotional range of a teaspoon of mud."

There's a click as she hangs up, the faint noise overly loud against Dean's eardrums as he lets the phone drop numbly onto the couch cushions, trying to figure out what the fuck he's going to do, what the odds are that he's going to get dragged out of bed and thrown into prison at 3am in the morning by a bunch of cops who are _never_ going to believe this is anything but Dean being a sick perv because Cas is perfect and too good for him and no one's ever going to buy that it was all consensual because there was no reason for Cas to want Dean, except that by some miracle he _had_ , and Dean couldn't ever say why.

Dean had had _every_ intention of demanding answers the second Cas got home, had tried calling to tell him to get his ass back here _now_ , except Cas wasn't answering and Dean couldn't quite figure out what to say when Cas' answer phone had finished informing him that Cas was a freak who didn't understand why the outgoing message wanted his name.

He ends up passing out after dinner, had spent too much of the afternoon and evening worrying himself in circles and trying to pretend everything was fine. And not doing a very good job of it, if all the questions and wrinkled foreheads and the occasional surprise hug from Sam were any indication. 

And when he wakes up...

There's hands on him, hands that know far too much about him to belong to anyone _but_ his brother, flirting under the hem of his t-shirt to graze a nail teasingly over the sensitive skin of his side, causing Dean to shiver even half-awake; a warm weight balanced on his hips as the hands slide up further, flat on his skin now as they roam upwards, and when Dean finally manages to blink his eyes open he can make out of the vague outline of Cas' features above his, rendered into near obscurity by the dark of the room, picked out by only the faintest of halos from the small amount of light coming through the window.

He's close, close enough that if Dean moves at all he's going to bump their noses together, close enough to kiss, closer than he's been all summer, and Dean's breath catches, harshly, in his throat, hears Cas' hitch a bit in response, and shivers again at the already ragged brush of Cas' breath over his skin.

Cas' mouth is on his, then, hard and urgent, biting and desperate, stealing all the air from Dean's lungs, and they've never kissed like this before, all sharp nips of teeth and instant burning need that makes him groan. Cas is sucking on Dean's tongue like if he doesn't get it he's going to _die_ and Dean can't blame him, not after all this time, can't help the way his hands come up to clench in Cas' t-shirt and drag him down, pull him closer, pull him down against Dean's chest, can feel the way Cas is almost vibrating against him, the small, futile jerks of his hips that accompany his moans and growls into Dean's mouth.

A need for oxygen eventually forces them apart, and Dean takes the opportunity to drag Cas' t-shirt over his head, slowing for a moment as he drags his eyes over his brother's torso, frustratingly shielded by the dark, and replaces it with his hands, brushing them over his skin with a near-reverence, and he knows this, God, so well, the feel of Cas' skin, smooth and pliant, the way Cas reacts, pressing into Dean's hands and arching into the lightest touch, the way his breath stutters into a groan when Dean catches a nail over his nipple.

The way Cas drags Dean's t-shirt off in response is the same and different; the impatience has always been there, the sense of irritation that they have to stop to do this, that the clothes won't just vanish with a thought, but the way he growls and mutters under his breath (something Dean can't quite make out despite their proximity, can only guess at the imprecations Cas is expressing), the way Cas' hands drop immediately to Dean's briefs, shoving them half-way down Dean's thighs with a rough indifference to _anything_ except getting them out of the way –- those are new, unknown, and Dean's not sure when, in all of this, he'd gotten hard, or if he'd woken up hard or... _God_ , who even _cares_ right now.

The weight pressing on Dean's hips disappears, followed a moment later by the rip of a zipper and the harsh sound of denim scraping over skin, the sounds too loud and all important when the only other thing Dean can hear is the harsh sound of their breathing.

There's a pause; a brief moment of stillness for Dean to breathe, try to reclaim some of the thoughts that are skittering away from him, chased off by Cas' touches and smell and _fucking existence_ ; get some sort of handle on the sense of _wrongness_ here, that something is off besides Cas just changing his mind about things, that –

Dean shivers a little as Cas settles back onto his hips, starts to form a question and gets cut off at Cas -- by another kiss, just as desperate, just as urgent, all need and intent and nownownow and Cas sucking on his tongue like he's going to _die_ if he doesn't and Dean can't do anything -- _anything_ in response that's not answering the kiss, not wrapping his hands around Cas' slim waist to pull him in closer, can't _not_ rub against him until they both moan, Cas' dick slotting in next to his like it's never _not_ been there, because they were fucking _made_ for this, and there wasn't a single path in their lives that wasn't going to lead here.

Cas' hand closes around Dean's wrist, nails digging in to the skin harshly as he pushes it down until Dean has a handful of ass and yes, good, fuck, Dean's definitely on board with that. He digs his nails in, the smirk forming on his lips at the groan Cas makes bitten off by the buck of Cas' hips into his. It makes him groan as the world starts spiralling into thoughtless sensation, becoming nothing more than a cacophony of _want/need/have_ and Cas is pushing a bottle of lube into his hand and _God fricking yes_.

The tremble that runs through Cas when Dean slips a finger in is delicious; the way his head drops with a groan onto Dean's shoulder, the way his fingers curl in the sheet next to Dean's head; the way his hips jerk away and then press back, ass lifting towards Dean's fingers, the way he _moans_ , like maybe, maybe he missed this, needed this as much as Dean did.

Like they were back where they'd been a year ago when nothing mattered except this, like it was the only thing in the world that held any meaning, before Dean fucked it all up for the only chance he was ever going to get at a full ride to a good school and how the fuck had he ever thought that was anything like a good reason.

"Why?"

Dean's fingers pause for a moment, then go back to work, because there's no way he could stop now, not when they're _so close_ to this that Dean can almost taste it, almost feel it in anticipation. He crooks his fingers, makes Cas buck and writhe and groan before he pulls them out, and if he thought Cas was going to have the patience to wait for Dean, he's mistaken, because the second his fingers are free, Cas wraps a hand around Dean's dick and guides himself down, one fast push that makes him hiss and pause, shivering in stillness for a moment and it's _all_ Dean can do not to start fucking up into that heat, that all-consuming heat and tightness that's pushing aside every other thought and sensation.

When Cas moves, it's all at once; one head-thrown-back, coming-to-the-surface-for-air _gasp_ where he goes from still and adjusting to fucking in the space of a breath, setting a hard pace right off the bat, no testing movements or build up or chance to acclimatise and _fuck_. Cas' mouth slackens against his, widening until they're not so much kissing anymore as just breathing, panting into each other's mouths, drawing in breath that tastes of someone else's lungs, someone else's life, with their foreheads pressed together like if they just get _close_ enough they might be able to hear what the other is thinking.

Dean knows, in the back of his head, that he should slow Cas down, tighten his hands on his brother's hips to hold him still for a moment, stop this frantic, head-long rush, make Cas relax from the tight way he's holding himself under Dean's hands, the way his muscles are tighter than the arch of his body should account for, even with the desperately urgent pace Cas is setting and the way his fingers are clenching and clawing at the sheets next to Dean's head. But he doesn't, doesn't do anything but groan into his brother's mouth and scramble to get his feet braced so he can meet Cas' demands, get the leverage to thrust up until everything's _fuck/Cas/heat/lust_ and there's no way Dean could stop it, could slow it, could do _anything_ but pray it never ended –

Cas growls and bites at his lip, tugging it between his teeth as a hand shifts to grip Dean's shoulders, too tight for comfort and with a hard edge of nail that makes Dean hiss and gasp and buck under him, gets himself rewarded for his efforts with another bite --harder, hard enough to bloody his lip and Cas is spilling words into his mouth to go with the taste of blood.

"Why? Why won't you _leave me alone?_ "

He ratchets the pace up another notch, too fast and too hard and Dean's breathing is short and ragged and catching in his throat and he's not even the one doing the work here, Cas is just fucking himself on Dean's dick and biting at the split in Dean's lip until it bleeds harder, drags his nails harshly over Dean's nipple to make him gasp and shiver away and he's anything and everything, anything except _still_ , as his dick smears pre-come in messy scribbles across Dean's chest.

"Why can't it be _someone else?_ "

Cas shivers for a moment, hands stilling for a moment on Dean's chest as he tenses and groans, head tipping back for a moment as his movements slow, finally, Cas all but grinding himself back on to Dean as he tightens, and Cas comes with a choked moan of _Dean_ , and he's all pale skin in the moonlight and clean lines and _heat_ that pulls Dean down with him.

"Why does it have to be _you?_ "

Dean wakes slowly, content to enjoy the lazy warmth draped over him, comfortably familiar in the way it fits against the curves of his own body; the way Cas fits so neatly and perfectly against him that it has to mean _something_ , that means this can't just be chance or them being fucked up sickos, because Cas couldn't fit there half as well as he does if he hadn't been made to go there.

But much as Dean would like to just stay here, keep enjoying this moment of quiet, in the interests of not getting thrown in jail, they really do need to get up and on with things, get cleaned up and all the evidence out of the way before anyone comes looking for them, has any opportunity to wonder.

"Hey, Gorgeous?" Dean squeezes Cas' hip gently, drops a kiss on the curve of his shoulder, can't help smiling against the skin and brushing his lips against it a few more times, rubbing himself idly against the small of his brother's back without any real intent -- course, it's not like he's going to _object_ if Cas wants to start round two once he wakes up.

It takes a bit of light shaking and a gentle nip at the underside of Cas' jaw before Cas rouses with a host of complaining groans, and he doesn't do more than crack his eyes open a fraction before he clamps them shut again, rolling onto his back and dragging the pillow over his head, every indication being that he intended to go right back to sleep.

Dean sighs, propping his chin on one hand and considering the lump of his brother under the sheets for a moment before he drags the pillow away, tossing it on the floor where Cas can't get it back, because Cas can be a stubborn ass when it comes to doing something he doesn't want to and it's generally just easier to circumvent the issue.

"C'mon, Cas, time to get up; we gotta get this cleaned up before anyone comes looking for us -- you know the drill."

This doesn't seem to provoke much in the way of response, beyond another groan and Cas lifting an arm to drape across his face. Dean takes advantage of the stomach this lays bare to poke Cas just below the ribs.

"C'mon, Prince Caspian. If Your Highness gets up, maybe I'll blow your horn." He snickers a bit, because he's funny dammit, and pokes Cas again, just in case the blowjob incentive and the hated nickname aren't enough to drag Cas into the realm of the living.

Cas groans again, cracking an eye open to glare balefully at Dean.

"I would be most appreciative, Dean, if you would _shut up_. In case it has escaped your attention, I am _attempting_ to sleep, and you are being obnoxiously loud."

Dean frowns, opening his mouth to say something and snapping it shut again, because he's _not_ being that loud, actually, thanks, and he _knows_ he's not; he's deliberately been keeping his voice down because Sam's room is right next door.

He opens his mouth again to say something to that very effect when he stops, once again shutting his mouth (and starting to feel a little like a fish with all this mouthing nothing) as something starts worming at his brain, starts twisting at his gut in a way that means he should probably just leave this alone, push the thought out of his mind and just accept that maybe, _maybe_ the world decided to give him something good this time, get up and go get breakfast and just... chalk it up to Cas being late to bed and tired and nothing else besides the fact that Cas is a grumpy bitch in the mornings.

Of course, he doesn't do that. Because he's a masochistic idiot and he has to give the world this opportunity to kick him in the balls again.

Instead, he leans over Cas more, bracing a hand on Cas' chest to hold him still (not that he really seems in danger of going anywhere) and frowning down at him for a moment, studying him carefully and trying to tell himself that no, no really, the dark shadows under Cas' eyes and the way he's sort of... translucently pale are just ascribable to tiredness, Dean's just being paranoid and he should let his brother go back to sleep.

His thumb brushes, gently, across one of the shadows under Cas' eyes for a moment before Dean takes a deep breath and moves it upward, dragging Cas' eyelid up with it and _GOD_ , no, Dean was right and Cas' pupils are freaking huge, too dilated for the bright morning light, way too large to be natural. Not as large as they'd been in Gabriel's room, but enough, enough to confirm the sick feeling in his stomach.

Dean feels green around the gills, feels suddenly cold and frozen, feels like his insides are churning. He sits back, numbly, lets Cas shove his hand away with another groan as he sits back on his heels, staring down at Cas blankly for a few minutes as he tries to wrap his head around this.

Opens his mouth again, has to stop and swallow, lick his lips that are suddenly too dry before he can force out the words.

"You're high again."

Jesus, he was a fricking _idiot_ to think it was only a one-time thing, to think that it was just curiosity and not... not a _thing that Cas did now_ apparently.

Cas groans and drops his arm back across his eyes, somehow managing to give the impression of glaring through his eyelids and the muscle of his forearm.

"I am _hungover_ , Dean. There is a considerable difference between the two, not the least of which is that being high is significantly more enjoyable. Which your persistence in talking is not aiding."

"But..." Dean's stomach has somehow managed to drop further as realisation kicks in, and he gags a little, can taste vomit in the back of his throat, because if Cas isn't high _now_ , then that means he was high _then_ and every thing Dean's ever told himself about how this isn't _fucked up_ , how he's not just taking advantage of Cas, how the law is wrong and the fact that he has feelings of a sexy nature for his brother doesn't make him sick is wrong, because Dean _is_ sick, and twisted and horrible and he _took advantage of his brother when he was high out of his mind_.

Dean gags again, knows he must be pale because his head feels too light and he's shivering as he stares down at Cas, at the dried come on his own stomach and the sheet he knows covers the smears on Cas' thighs where he's leaked out overnight, the wet patch in the sheet that holds more of the damning evidence, and shudders violently, stumbling out of the bed as his skin crawls.

He makes it to the waste paper basket under the desk in time, dragging it out and dropping to his knees hard as they all but give out under him, gagging violently a few more times futilely before he brings anything up, keeps heaving heavily, trying to gulp down air between each wave of disgust and horror and palpitation of his stomach because _fuck_ , that was basically like rape, right, he'd practically raped his brother because he hadn't taken thirty fucking seconds out of his own head to follow up on his feeling that something was wrong.

Something perches next to him, a hand coming to rest between his shoulder blades, rubbing gently, as a warm weight settles over his shoulders, and Dean manages to glance up long enough to register that it's Cas, crouched next to him with a blanket pulled over his head like a hood and an expression that Dean thinks is worry hidden under the way he's wincing at the light.

It should help, should be comforting, that Cas apparently doesn't hate Dean for this, but it isn't and Dean heaves harder under the touch.

There's nothing left to bring up except stomach acid, and it burns.

It's almost impossible to entirely avoid someone you share a room with, but Dean spends most of the two weeks leading up to Cas' eighteenth birthday trying. He spends time over at Nick's and Anna's, takes Baby over to Dad's motel room to work on her engine, even hangs around at the Roadhouse while Jo was on shift, despite the awkwardness of having to deal with the one-sided crush she's been nursing since middle school.

And Dean's not sure if it's just that he's hyper-aware of it now, or maybe Cas just isn't bothering to hide it as much... or -- and this is the explanation Dean tries not to think about -- maybe Cas actually _has_ just been using more since that night and Dean had made everything worse again (like he _always_ does), but on those occasions when Dean can't help running in to him -- dinner, when Cas' eyes are slightly too large or bloodshot, mornings where Cas tries to hide under the blankets at the slightest noise or hint of light --it becomes more and more obvious that, whatever Dean wants to tell himself, Cas wasn't just experimenting, that Crowley's and the party at Balthazar's weren't just flukes.

There are nights, too, where Cas crawls in with Dean, the way he'd done when they were younger and he'd suffered from nightmares. He doesn't try to initiate sex again, though, which Dean is mostly grateful for --and the part of him that's not (that wants him to drop his mouth to Cas' again when it's only an inch away and he can feel Cas' breath on his face, hot and prickling at his nerves), that tells him that _he_ seems to be the only one who has issues about it, that Cas seems fine with it, that he hasn't been using more since then Dean's just noticing it now because he _knows_ , that wants him to pull Cas closer and slide into him or onto him, that whispers about how good Cas feels? Dean pushes it aside, tries to ignore its insinuations as he curls around Cas, squashes it under the nausea that still twists his insides whenever he thinks about the way Cas' eyes had been blown _so huge_.

It doesn't always work, though, and a few times he wakes up, hard, with an armful of Cas and breathing in the smell of his shampoo, and has to slip off to the shower before anyone wakes up. Once he'd woken up to find himself rubbing up against the small of Cas' back, so _damn close_ that there wasn't time to stop, and Dean spent twenty minutes hanging on to the cold ceramic of the toilet. He'd managed not to throw up, but it had left a sick taste in his mouth the rest of the day. Because yeah, maybe it's not the first time it's happened and maybe he and Cas have both done their fair share of rubbing one out on each other in the last four years, but it's _different_ , now, in ways Dean can't even put his finger on but somehow tie back to _That Night_ in a way that Dean is avoiding scrutinising too closely.

Not that _that's_ anything new.

And not thinking about it works well enough when he can duck out of the house after breakfast on the pretext of a run and not come home until dinner or later, when his time around Cas and the silences that rub across his nerves and make them raw, that make him tense and antsy, waiting for that one hint of _something_ that he can leap on if only it would ever get said is limited, when most of the time they spend together is in sleep or the quiet time just before it.

Dean doesn't think it's going to be all that effective when he and Cas are sharing a car and motel rooms for the next few weeks, but it's not like there's any way of getting out of it. They'd planned this trip years ago, and too many people knew about it. Half Cas' birthday presents had been cash and supplies for the trip; Mom had even managed to scrape up enough from somewhere for the new camera Cas had been eyeing since he'd taken that course at the youth centre.

Besides, Dean has a plan. Or. Well. Dean _sort of_ has a plan... and uh... yeah, okay, it's really more of a _proto_ -plan but it's gotta be better than nothing.

Because if Dean's options are limited to "Cas being a freaking junkie" and "Mom shipping Cas off to some rehab place where they won't understand that his weirdness is just _how he is_ and would probably have to be paid out of Cas' College fund", then Dean's just gonna be taking a page out of Kirk's book and taking the third option. And if Cas isn't here, then he can't buy drugs from Crowley -- and Dean's pretty certain he can figure out some way to stop him getting more while they're gone, even if it means he has to glue himself to his brother's side for the entire trip.

Okay, so it's a _terrible_ (proto-)plan, and he's not stupid enough to think that just because he might be able to keep Cas from taking anything for the next couple of weeks it's going to fix anything or make Cas better or anything, but at least maybe it's a _start_.

And it's all he has.

They've been on the road for four hours, and Dean's starting to wonder if they're just going to pass the entire trip in silence. He's thought about breaking it once or twice, got as far as half-reaching for the volume knob on the radio before he'd glanced over at Cas, forehead creased and mouth turned down at the corners as he stared out the passenger window, and loses his nerve.

It's kind of a shock when Cas does it, flicking off the radio in the middle of the Rolling Stones' _Wild Horses_ \- which okay, Dean doesn't really blame him for, that song's hitting a little too close to home but hey, that's what fast forward was _invented_ for, no reason to sit in dead silence for the next however many hours until their first stop.

Apparently, though, that's not Cas' plan, and it's a damn good thing they're on a straight, relatively empty stretch of road, because Cas' voice startles Dean's attention away from it.

"You've been avoiding me." There's a reproachful note in there, and Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel to the point of discomfort, his laugh ringing hollow.

"Yeah, well. Pot, Kettle and all that, right?" 

Cas huffs irritably, and Dean notices, out of the corner of his eye, that Cas is picking at the hem of his t-shirt. Well. Technically _Dean's_ t-shirt, he notices; the _Trekkies do it in the Final Frontier_ shirt that he usually wears jogging. 

Not that clothes sharing is exactly _new_ for them or anything; Hell, Mom still buys their underwear in multi-packs and until Dean left for College, those had spent most of their time mixed up in the same drawer and it had pretty much been a matter of whatever came to hand first.

But it's also the first time either of them have done it since Dean got home and found Cas in his Star Trek uniform shirt that apparently hadn't meant a damn thing he thought it had.

Or maybe it had, and Dean's just missed whatever bloody clues he was supposed to be picking up; God knows Cas doesn't always operate on the same wavelength as the rest of the world --but then, Dean's pretty good at tuning into Radio Cas, better than anyone else, anyway, and he's just gonna go round in circles if he starts down there.

But anyway. The point wasn't whatever -- if anything -- Cas had meant by wearing the uniform two months ago. It was that it had been a damn long time.

Besides, Dean was pretty sure he'd thrown the t-shirt in the laundry yesterday, which meant Cas had to have fished it out. Despite his generally lower tolerance for grungy clothes than Dean.

And _that_ has to mean something. Right?

...And there's another fucking thing to spin round, right round like a record baby in his head all goddamn day.

Cas doesn't seem to have been distracted, though, since he picks up the conversation -- if it can be called that -- again. But then, of course he wasn't -- whatever the fuck he means by wearing Dean's shirt he _knows_.

"You're angry with me."

Dean sighs, drags a hand through his hair and fixes his eyes on the road ahead.

"No, I'm just-" He's just -- what? Irritated, upset, pissed at himself, a sick fuck who probably shouldn't be allowed near Cas unsupervised, twisted in so many circles _Escher_ wouldn't be able to follow it? "I'm not angry at _you_."

Silence reigns from the other side of the car and Dean risks a glance over after a few minutes. Cas is giving him _that_ look again; the "I can see your soul and something about it is making me sad" headtilty stare that usually comes before he comes out with some... stupid Hallmark truth that Dean would really rather just _not_ , if it's all the same to everyone.

He swallows, tightens his hands on the wheel when Cas says his name, softer than usual and with _layers_.

"Look. Just. Just leave it, okay Cas? Just... I'm not angry at you, okay? It's not -- it's not your fault." 

Cas huffs, and Dean can _hear_ the eye roll that accompanies it.

"It's no one's 'fault', Dean, because _fault requires something to be blamed for_. I thought we had established that you're propensity for self-flagellation is both unnecessary and something you were going to desist from?"

Dean groans, resists the urge to beat his forehead against the steering wheel, and there is absolutely no world, none, where any version of him wants to be having this conversation that they are apparently going to have anyway.

Maybe sitting in dead silence for the next however many hours wouldn't be so bad after all. Except Dean has this feeling, sort of, that this conversation is some sort of twisted-ass olive branch that Cas is offering, that it's this conversation or a return to the silent summer.

It takes a while, even so, to drag out the words, but that's okay. It's not like these conversations of theirs ever go without long, too-deep silences. Hell, the only thing stopping this one from being a classic is its location; move 'em to a dark, empty parking lot or the tree-house and it'd pretty much be every uncomfortable-but-necessary only-with-Cas talk they've ever had.

"I'm pretty sure _rape_ is something to be blamed for, Cas. That's not even -- I'm pretty sure that's not up for argument."

"I wasn't trying to -- that was hardly the point I was making, Dean." Cas huffs. "And we would be having a remarkable different discussion if anyone had been raped -- or likely not having one at all."

"You. Were. High." Dean's grip on the steering wheel is starting to hurt. "As in 'unable to legally give consent'. Sounds pretty much like rape to me."

Cas is raising an eyebrow at him. Dean can feel it. And sort of see it out of the corner of his eye, but mostly feel it.

"We've had sex when you were drunk before; you didn't seem to consider that rape, Dean. I fail to see the difference. _And_ you were unaware at the time. Oh. And let's not forget the remarkably salient point that _I wanted it._ "

"Yeah, but --" It's _different_ , this was different. Completely--

"Besides," Cas continues, cutting him off. "I'm fairly certain that _I'm_ the one who gets to decide whether or not I was raped. That's _not_ one of those things that _someone else gets to decide._ "

Dean opens his mouth to say something -- _anything_ \-- in response, ends up shutting it again when nothing comes out, and eventually manages to say -- kinda weakly, he'll admit --"But _legally_ \--"

Cas snorts, loudly. " _Legally_ , Dean? None of the sex we have _ever_ had has been legal. Kansas doesn't even allow _cousins_ to marry, Dean, let alone sibling incest. That's not even touching on the fact that homosexual sodomy is still considered a misdemeanour equal to prostitution. Oh. And we were rather under the legal age for some time. _None_ of which has ever been an issue before; we decided four years ago that there was a difference between legality and morality, at least in certain _pertinent_ circumstances."

Dean sighs, takes his hand off the wheel to drag his hand down his face, scrub at the back of his neck.

"Yeah, but, like... the incest laws only really exist so that people don't end up with freaky mutant inbred babies. And like. Because most people think it has to be because of abuse and shit. And that doesn't really apply to us. But that's an entirely different ballpark to rape, Cas."

"I would _assume_ that the major reason rape is frowned upon is for moral reasons, Dean, not legal ones. But since no rape occurred, I don't understand what your point is."

"Just. I don't know, Cas, I _don't_. We keep telling ourselves that we're not hurting anyone or whatever, and that we're not gonna have mutant ass-babies, but it kind of seems like we're doing pretty damn well at the hurting people thing."

Cas sighs softly and reaches over to squeeze Dean's shoulder, rubbing at the muscle. He leaves it there, warmth seeping down Dean's arm.

"I'd like to point out, Dean, that we only seem to hurt each other. And we mostly seem to do that when we're _not_ seeing each other."

Dean has to think that over for a bit, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel, and it's so _hard_ to think of reasons why that's wrong when he can see Cas out of the corner of his eye, when Cas is actually _talking_ to him again and not just being sarcastic and avoidant, when Cas' hand is on his shoulder and it's warm and comforting.

"I'm pretty sure we'd be hurting Mom and Dad and pretty much everyone else who gives a fuck about us if it ever came out, though. It's not like Mom and Dad are just gonna turn around and be all 'yay, our kids are fucking each other' or shit," he points out eventually, because he's always been good at pig-headed stubbornness.

"We already _made_ our decision on that front, Dean, years ago. At the same time we made _all the other decisions_ about whether we thought this was worth all the complications and potential issues. Not that they can't be changed, but... I do not feel that you wishing to martyr yourself over things that were _not your fault_ is a valid reason. Besides, I fail to see how our sex life is any of their business in the first place."

Dean exhales, loudly, and opens his mouth to say something, but gets interrupted by Cas sighing in response and squeezing his shoulder.

"Dean, can we-- I would like to call a truce. From everything. We've been planning this trip for a long time and I would like to enjoy it. Preferably together."

Dean tightens his grip on the steering wheel; swallows against the sudden lump in his throat, the way his heart is suddenly too-fast against his ribs.

"And after? Once we get back? What then?"

Cas gives him a fairly unreadable look for a moment -- well, unreadable from what Dean can see of it anyway -- before he speaks.

"I suppose we see how things seem then, Dean."

Dean grins, reaching down to rummage through the tape box and fumbling through a tape change to _AC/DC_ because there's no way that Cas can just flip a switch and go back to being Pissy McPisserson again in two weeks, _no fricking way_.

It's not like Dean had actually gone _looking_ for them. He hadn't been snooping or anything. He'd just been looking for a clean shirt, because his was kinda rank and the motel's washer was fucked. It's not _his_ fault that the bag had fallen out, a small ziplock bag of colourful pills.

They're small, for the amount of difference they make; too small to have possibly caused all the trouble they have, to have twisted Cas -- _Cas_ , who was usually so steady and reliable -- around as much as they have, until he's caught and captive to them. The bright colours -- vivid reds, blues, greens and yellows; even a brilliant, violent pink that Dean is pretty sure can't possibly be edible -- are a damn mockery as Dean rolls them around in his hand, revealing a myriad of symbols embossed on their surface; smiley faces, hearts, Road Runner... even the damn Batman symbol.

He's not sure how long he spends staring down at the small, round pills in his hand, turning them over and over in his hand as he turns it over in his mind, but however long it is is a few minutes too long; Cas comes back with dinner while the toilet's still flushing and Dean's got the -- now empty -- bag still in his hands.

It's pretty safe to say that the truce is probably off.

It's most of a week before anything really starts kicking in, and Dean's starting to wonder if maybe he'd been mistaken, if maybe Cas really _had_ just been experimenting and Dean had just been hyperaware and paranoid about every little thing. Oh, there's a few things -- Cas seems tired, slumping more and more against the window of the Impala, and he moves a little stiffly, seems a little bleary -- but nothing that couldn't be chalked up to old motel beds with springs that seemed determined to poke at every vital organ.

So he doesn't really give it much thought when he wanders out of the shower, towelling his hair dry on the way, and finds Cas still curled up under the covers, duvet pulled up high until only the mess of his hair is visible.

Dean sighs, staring down at the lump under the blankets for a moment before he grabs the end and hauls, leaving the covers in an untidy pile at the foot of the bed and leaning down to bat at Cas' foot when this fails to score him any response beyond a groan and Cas curling into a slightly tighter ball.

"C'mon Cas -- seriously, we gotta haul ass or we're gonna miss check out. And I'm not paying a late fee just cause you don't want to get up."

Dean gives Cas' foot a last bat on the sole before he starts digging around in his duffel for a clean(ish) t-shirt, and by the time he settles on his old worn zeppelin shirt as the best mix between clean and awesome and turns around, he's sort of a little disgruntled to find that Cas hasn't so much as flexed a toe.

"Seriously, Dick, you're paying if these guys are douches about the check out. C'mon. Up."

The most this nets him is Cas curling a little tighter in on himself, another groan --which is starting to sound a little more miserable and a little less irritated the second time around --and a glimpse of Cas' face drawn tight.

"Hey," Dean quietens his voice as he moves to crouch down next to the bed, frown becoming more concerned. "You okay, man?"

Cas _sighs_ , like Dean's concern is some sort of exasperating, like Dean _caring_ is some sort of huge burden that he's dumped on to Cas without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Dean. Please just _go away_."

Yeah, right. Like Dean's just gonna bail when his brother is curled up in the foetal position refusing to move.

He sighs a bit instead, crossing his arms on the edge of the bed as a make shift chin rest, considering Cas quietly for a moment.

"Yeaaah, that's not happening, Sweetheart. You're kinda stuck with me. And I know -- you kinda hate me right now and all that, but we really do need to get going. Any possibility of you ignoring me from Baby's passenger seat instead?"

Dean earns himself a small, miserable little half smile at the epithet, catches himself smiling back until it hits him --again -- that Cas isn't looking all that great. 

"I'm aware this concept may be foreign to you, Dean, but a day stuck in the Impala listening to Dad's old tape collection currently fails to appeal."

Dean sighs a little, reaching over to brush a few strands of hair away from Cas' forehead, his frown deepening at the dampness on Cas' skin.

"We're supposed to be at Bobby's in a few days, Cas; we could just drive straight through to the motel for tonight, rather than stopping to look around?"

He feels a bit better when Cas manages to muster up enough energy to glare at him, even if it does lack its usual vitriol.

"Dean." And yep, that snippy tone and the exasperation Cas manages to pack into the single syllable of Dean's name is classic 'Cas thinks Dean is being deliberately frustrating.' "My joints hurt, my muscles are sore, my head is _killing me_ and _none_ of these things are improved by the nausea that occurs from sitting in a moving vehicle for an extended period. I would eminently prefer to _not_ spend another day in that position."

Dean blinks a little at Cas, casting his mind back over the last few days and trying to figure out if maybe some of what he'd been chalking up as Cas being pissed off that Dean had thrown out his stash was Cas stubbornly refusing to admit that he wasn't feeling great, trying to pretend things were fine.

"Yeah, you're kinda hot too -- and not the sexy kind either. Okay, I gotcha, Cas... Lemme go see if we can extend our stay a bit, okay? Or if he knows somewhere else nearby if not -- or, just, I'll be right back, okay?"

He brushes his fingers back through Cas' hair as he stands up, sighing a little as he makes his way to the door.

"Dean?"

He pauses for a moment, turning a little at the quiet tone and blinking at Cas' back.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"...Yeah." Dean shrugs a little, dismissively, because yeah, gee, he's showing the minimum amount of human decency about something he should have noticed _days_ ago, instead of dragging Cas around making him miserable. Go him.

"Sorry for taking so long, Pretty Boy, but I got you a bacon cheeseburger -- or some chicken noodle soup if you're not up to the burger. The diner didn't actually have any soup on their specials today, but I told the lady it was for my sick little brother and she made some up special." Dean snickers a litttle, grinning down at the table. "Think she thinks you're about 13, the way she was talking... nice old lad--"

He cuts off abruptly when he turns around from putting the food out on the table and finds Cas' bed empty, the covers tossed back, frowning for a moment and briefly cursing himself as an _idiot_ for buying whatever ruse Cas was selling, for not realising that the guy was probably going to take the opportunity of Dean getting lunch to try and score something to take the edge off -- until the closed bathroom door makes him sigh with relief.

"Cas? You in there?" Dean raps lightly at the door, leaning against the wall next to it as he waits for a response. He tries the handle when none is forthcoming, frowning when he finds it locked, and bangs harder, more urgently as the coil of dread comes back.

"C'mon, Cas, just. Look, if you can hear me just let me know you haven't passed out in the shower or something, okay?"

The silence in response is deafening, broken only by the too-fast pounding of Dean's heart in his ears.

He's back a couple of minutes later, trailed by the motel manager because his _sick brother_ is locked in the bathroom and not answering and fuck if Dean is going to leave him in there.

Dean's through the door the second the manager jimmies the lock enough to get it open, and _freezes_ for a second in horror, utterly and completely, in the scene painted in red against the black and white of the bathroom tiles; the too bright blood -- too vivid to be real, too _impossible_ \-- Cas so pale and white, unnaturally so, the almost comic supposition of his _An Apple A Day Keeps The Doctor Away_ Dalek t-shirt giving the whole thing an air of rather macabre surreality.

Dean's not entirely sure how he gets from frozen in the doorway to kneeling on the floor in the puddle of blood, curling tight, desperate fingers around the towels wrapped around Cas' wrists as he drags Cas back against his chest, spilling out a constant stream of _fuck Cas, I gotcha Cas, fuck, fuckfuck, Cas, C'mon Cas, don't you fucking do this, c'mon._

He's vaguely aware the manager is dialling an ambulance, is asking him something, but the sounds are weirdly muffled until they're all but white noise, and just so, so not important right now, when Cas is scary light and still not responsive and Dean is digging his fingers desperately into rough towelette in an attempt to cling on to Cas, to keep the blood on the _inside_ , to stop the way it's soaking more and more into the towel and killing Dean a little more with every fibre darkened. 

Cas' eyelashes flutter slightly against Dean's neck, the light brush making his fingers tighten, white-knuckling over Cas' wrist as Dean keeps mindlessly repeating himself -- _Cas, c'mon, **c'mon Cas** , you don't want to do this, don't you fucking dare do this, c'monc'mon **c'mon**_ and he's vaguely aware that he's crying, that his face is wet and and his vision blurring everything into white and red and black as he stares anxiously down at Cas.

Dean draws in a sobbing breath when Cas' eyes flutter open, blearily focusing on him.

"Dean?"

His voice is oddly small, scared sounding almost, and it wrings and wrenches Dean's heartstrings, makes him draw Cas closer, protectively curling himself around the smaller form of his brother.

"Yeah. Yeah, Sweetheart, I've got you, I've got you, just hang on, okay, you're gonna be okay, it's all gonna be fine, I promise, not gonna let anything happen to you, promise, I've got you..."

Dean's not even sure which of them he's trying to reassure more.

Dean's been here for hours, this seat next to Cas' bed, listening to the constant, reassuring beep of the heart monitor and answering question _("What's his name?"_

_"Cas."_

_The nurse smiles kindly, tipping her head a little as she taps her pen against the clipboard and the admissions forms Dean can't fill in because there is no way in Hell he is letting go of Cas' hand._

_"I need his full name, hon."_

_"Oh... John Cassidy Winchester."_

_"Date of birth?")_ after question _("Is there anyone who can act as a proxy for John?"_

_Dean pauses for a moment, thinks about calling Mom, calling Dad. Thinks about having to explain everything that's happened, of everything they've already gone through this year, of the way it'd break their hearts --thinks about how Cas probably doesn't want them to know, and how they're just starting to reestablish something approaching a relationship and shakes his head._

_"I'm his brother... that's enough right? And it's Cas... he hates being called John.")_ after question _("Has he tried this before?"_

_"No."_

_"Did you have any indication that he was thinking about harming himself?"_

_"No --I --maybe? I didn't... I don't think so, but... maybe I missed it."_

_"So you weren't aware there are indications of prior cutting?")_ , and he's downed several cups of coffee, staring out at the darkness outside the window.

Cas looks small in the bed, smaller than usual and weirdly diminished among all the medical equipment -- the heart monitor that is Dean's lifeline to sanity, the IV line of fluids and the darker line for the blood transfusion, the other machines that Dean isn't as clear on -- scarily small, and Dean hasn't been able to get a clear answer from any of the various doctors or nurses who've been in and out of the room in response to various beeps and whistles.

It reminds him, strongly and uneasily, of the last time Cas had been in hospital, just before he'd started school, sick with some complication of chicken pox that had left his limbs swollen and painful. Dean hadn't been old enough to understand "meningitis complications", or what it meant, but he remembers the hushed whispers, Mom and Dad in huddles with the doctors down the Hall while Dean was holding Sammy, barely a toddler, because Mom said that while Dean was a big boy now, Sammy was too young to understand and someone needed to watch him. He remembers how Cas had looked in the bed, small and surrounded by starched white sheets and a small army of machines, so many that Dean had run out of fingers to count on.

Mostly though, he remembers the way Cas would cry blue murder whenever Mom or Dad made Dean leave, and trying to hide in the hospital room so he could stay.

There is no way in Hell he's leaving this time, as Dean is fully prepared to tell anyone who so much as attempts to get him to leave or mentions visiting hours.

Dean's not sure when he falls asleep, head pillowed on his arms as he slumps against the bed with dreams full of four year old Cas' crying, but he wakes up to fingers carding through his hair.

It takes him a moment to get his bearings, to stop blinking in confusion at the pale green of the hospital blanket and the constant beeping, to groan a little at the sore stiffness in his neck and back, the way his muscles have half seized up, but once memory comes creeping back his head whips around, leaves him blinking up at Cas and sighing in relief when he finds his brother awake and the source of the fingers still gently brushing through his hair and down his cheek.

Cas gives him a small, worn smile.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean manages his own, tired smile.

"Hey, Cas. "

He still looks small, among all the pillows and starched white linen. Not as diminished as he was asleep, but still. Small.

He's drawn, too, a tenseness around his eyes and mouth that isn't normally there, and whether the shadows under his eyes are actually darker than usual or just seem darker because Cas is bleached white, Dean can't say. Can't see where it matters, when his brother looks like some vampire's Happy Meal.

"How you feeling, Sweetheart?" Dean's hand creeps along the covers until he can rest it on Cas' thigh under the covers, massaging small circles into the muscle.

Cas shrugs; a small half-hearted movement, and manages another tight smile.

"Considering? Acceptable. A little sore." He huffs a little, resettles himself against the pillows.

Dean frowns a bit, squeezes Cas' leg gently.

"You want me to go find the nurse? Maybe she could give you something?"

Cas shakes his head slightly.

"No. I think - I don't think I want any drugs."

Dean's smile edges a little wider, a little easier.

"Yeah?"

"I'm fairly certain being clean _before_ I start Caltech is a good idea."

Dean has the feeling he's verging into grinning territory.

"Caltech, huh? That's commuting distance from UCLA y'know. When'd you pick that?"

Cas hmms a bit.

"June."

Dean huffs a bit, trying for irritated, but he's pretty sure it comes out more amused than anything.

"So, what, you've been jerking me around all summer? Dick."

Cas' lips twitch slightly.

"You wouldn't like me if I was nice, Dean. You'd get bored. Besides, I hadn't actually decided. On whether or not the proximity was a benefit or not."

"Yeah, well." Dean sighs a bit, squeezes Cas' leg again. "You sure you don't want me to get the nurse? Uppers and narcotics aren't really the same thing, it's probably fine? And I don't think you're banged up enough for the good stuff anyway."

Cas shakes his head again, and sighs. "No. I'm fine, Dean, honestly. It's just an ache, it's not _bad_." The smile Dean gets is rather wobbly, this time. "And that was rather the point, to feel something."

Dean blinks, tips his head a bit at Cas.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. I wasn't exactly aiming to end up here, Dean, or... anywhere else." Cas sighs softly, pressing his leg back into Dean's hand encouragingly when he stops rubbing. "I just wanted to feel _something_. Not..."

Dean sighs, picks back up with massaging Cas' thigh.

"And you couldn't think of any _other_ ways to do that, Pretty Boy?"

One side of Cas' mouth makes a feeble attempt at climbing.

"It's not usually this dramatic."

"Yeah. Yeah, the doc said you'd... he said there was earlier evidence."

Cas huffs again, exhaustedly, and closes his eyes.

"It hasn't been a good year, Dean."

Dean sighs, leans forward awkwardly to press a kiss to Cas' forehead.

"But this year's gonna be better, right?"

Cas huffs a little, but he's smiling a little as well.

"Yes, Dean, I'm sure it will be."

Dean's just gonna count that as a win.


End file.
